


Small Things

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-20
Updated: 1999-03-20
Packaged: 2018-11-10 22:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: On a bad day, Meg finds it's the small things that are hardest to bear.





	Small Things

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Small Things

France (the person, not the country!) asked me if I'd consider doing a Thatcher story where she actually (shock, horror) expressed emotions and feelings, and that made me wonder what it would take for her to do that. (If you're wondering, yes, it means that Thatcher is in this!) 

Nik 

\----- 

# Small Things

by Nicola Heiser 

It was such a small thing to do. All she had to do was push against the top right corner of the filing cabinet while she pulled out the drawer, remembering to lift it slightly as she did. She wouldn't have had to do it at all if Turnbull hadn't deleted the file from the computers, but there you were. It was a small thing, but nearly impossible when you had one arm in a sling, particularly your right arm when you were right-handed. 

She yanked at the drawer in frustration. She needed the file for a report that Ottawa had decided they needed immediately, along with about four others. Today, of all days. 

The drawer wouldn't budge; she let go, disproportionately angry, and punched the metal body of the cabinet. Like a helpless 1930s heroine, she was going to have to ask for help, and she wasn't a 1930s heroine. Inspector Thatcher can't get her own files. Wonderful. 

She went to the door, only to have it nearly knock her out. Turnbull, of course, looking impossibly young and hopeful, impossibly infuriating. "What is it, Turnbull?" she asked him irritably. 

"It's just that... well, ma'am, Fraser's not back from lunch yet..." 

"Where is he?" 

"Well, I think he's with Detective Vecchio..." 

"Stupid question. Turnbull, could you get the budget file for me? I can't manage the drawer with one arm." 

Bad move. Turnbull didn't quite know the trick to opening the drawer, and she had to talk him through it and be reminded all over again how bad he was at interpreting instructions, all while he kept up his monologue about Fraser. 

"You see, these people have arrived, a Canadian couple, and, well... I think the drawer is broken, ma'am... no, really... anyway, they came to me, because I was at the desk, and... I don't think we're going to get this open." 

"Just keep trying, Constable," she told him through gritted teeth. "And try to get to the point." 

"Yes, ma'am. Of course. Well, they want to visit their niece in London; she's just had her first baby, a little girl, and they're standing as godparents... This sure is stuck... And so they're here to apply for passports, which is reasonable, and... Ow!" 

Two officers on duty today, and she got Turnbull, who was sucking on his sore finger and looking bewildered. All he had to do was push with one hand and pull with the other. And talk at the same time. 

"...if you say so, ma'am," he told her, obedient but dubious, trying again with the drawer. "Well, to make a long story short, they've come to see Constable Fraser..." 

"Who isn't here." Of course. 

Turnbull looked at her, surprised. "How did you know that?" 

"You told me, Constable. The file?" 

"Oh, yes, of course... so what do you want me to do?" 

Not the interview. Not much of anything, just get the file. Such a small thing. "Just where is Constable Fraser?" 

"With Detective Vecchio, ma'am." 

"Yes, you told me that, but... oh, never mind." At last, the file. And a decision, one that she would no doubt end up regretting, that would probably require hours of her time to fix. "Very well, Turnbull, you handle the interview." 

His face lit up and he left quickly before she could change her mind. Too young, too stupid. Two officers on duty; one of them was an incompetent fool, and the other... She sighed. The other was at least as infuriating, partly because he wasn't an incompetent fool and should therefore be the officer who gave her the least trouble. But mostly because he was Fraser. 

Back to her desk, back to the laptop. A moment to get her glasses out of their case and put them on, another to remember where she was up to, and then she started checking numbers off the spreadsheet. At least Fraser had set up the spreadsheet, so she wouldn't have to do much left-handed number-crunching to correct mistakes. 

She could hear voices from the outer office, and tried to ignore them, until someone knocked on the door. She called for them to enter, and Fraser stood before her desk. "You're late." 

"Yes, Inspector. I apologise." 

"Do you in fact work for the consulate or the Chicago PD, Constable? I've often wondered." 

"Well, Inspector, I..." For the first time that she could remember, Fraser interrupted himself on the verge of one of his convoluted explanations. "There's a phone call for you." 

She looked at him, exasperated. "Then why didn't you just direct it to my phone, Constable?" 

His eyes met hers. "It's Michelle Turner's aunt, ma'am. She wants to thank you for what you did." 

He could have punched her and it would have hurt less, thrown her less. For a moment, she said nothing, but she was an inspector, and she had her responsibilities. "Very well, Fraser. Patch it through to my phone. We'll continue this discussion later." 

He hesitated, looking thoughtfully at her, understanding in those blue eyes, but that was the last thing she needed. "You're dismissed, Fraser." 

The door closed behind him, and the phone on her desk rang. She picked it up, fighting a feeling of dread. "Inspector Thatcher." 

The girl died. The girl died, and her aunt was phoning her to thank her, because Mr and Mrs Turner were too distraught to speak to anyone. She kept her voice calm, sympathetic, because that was what she did, what she was supposed to do. But she was bleakly grateful for the privacy of her office, where she didn't have to force an expression to match her voice. The throbbing in her shoulder intensified; her whole body began to ache with a dull, persistent pain. 

"We hope... we all hope you weren't injured too badly." The aunt's voice was strained to almost breaking point. 

"No, not at all, Mrs Steele. I'm fine." 

"It's just..." A break in her voice, and a pause to regain control. "I'm sorry." 

"There's no need to apologise, Mrs Steele. It's understandable." 

"The papers said you'd been operated on, we thought..." 

"They just removed the bullet. It wasn't anything serious; please don't let it worry you." 

If the aunt didn't hang up, if she had to listen to the aunt worry about her and thank her while Michelle Turner lay dead in a funeral home, she was going to fall apart. She didn't save her, couldn't get to her in time, and the more she had to think about it, the more her shoulder ached. But she didn't get to her in time, and if her family needed to talk to her now, she would listen. 

Self-flagellation. Superintendent Dell had told her off time and again for her tendency to punish herself unnecessarily. Not even Meg Thatcher is supposed to be perfect all the time; treat her the way you would treat a subordinate. Superintendent Dell. 

She listened to the click on the end of the line as Mrs Steele hung up at last, then she dialled the number in Ottawa, awkwardly balancing the receiver between her chin and shoulder. But Superintendent Dell was on leave for the day. "If it's urgent, I could find a contact numb..." 

All of a sudden it wasn't a constable in Ottawa speaking to her, but Turnbull, giving his customary spiel about not speaking French. "Turnbull," she said wearily. 

"...you'll have to call back later... although Constable Fraser does, and the Inspector, so..." 

Sharper this time. "Turnbull!" 

There was a pause, and then Turnbull's voice, cautious, puzzled. "Inspector Thatcher, is that you?" 

"Yes, Turnbull," she told him with deceptive patience. 

"I'm sorry; I thought you were still here at the consulate." 

"I am, Turnbull. I never left. You cut me off in the middle of a phone call." 

"I did? I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, I didn't realise..." 

Too tired. Too tired to deal with Turnbull and his ineptitude and his apologies. "You're lucky it wasn't important, Turnbull. Just don't do it again. And have Fraser go over the phone procedure with you one more time." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

Doesn't speak French, doesn't speak English, was born on a different planet and that was where he still was mentally. What was it about Chicago that attracted the oddities in the RCMP, and what did it mean that she was here as well? 

Another knock on the door, and Fraser was back, looking faintly regretful. "Detective Vecchio just called me, Inspector. If it's convenient, the police would like to interview now about Michelle Turner." 

She had known it was coming. "Of course, Constable. I'll be with you in a moment." Save the spreadsheet, put the file in her desk, not the filing cabinet, find her bag. Either the consulate would be left with only Turnbull, or she would have to put up with Turnbull on top of reliving the girl's death. "Are you able to drive me, Fraser, or should I ask Turnbull?" 

There was a glimmer of understanding in his eyes, and he smiled slightly at her. "I can drive you, Inspector." 

"Very well. Let's go." 

It would be so much easier to deal with things if people would only behave as normal, without the sympathy in their faces, without the solicitude that marked Vecchio's greeting. If people would just pretend that she hadn't let a ten-year-old girl die, then maybe she could pretend it, too. But Vecchio was treating her with quiet consideration, and he and Fraser walked on either side of her, flanking her protectively, like bodyguards. Lieutenant Welsh met them, noting her sling, Fraser's limp, Vecchio's bruised face. 

"At any given moment in time, I can always count on at least one of you three being injured." But even that observation lacked the acid bite of his usual comments, and he went himself to get her a cup of coffee. 

Control and dignity; she was a representative of the RCMP, of Canada. Remembering that, she could deal with Vecchio apologising for having her go over the events of the other afternoon, could even smile, though a little tightly, and reassure him that she knew it was his duty. Question after question, she answered them calmly, with clarity; she'd written up reports herself and knew what it was like to interview someone who kept getting confused. And every second that it went on drove her closer and closer to losing it completely. The girl died, at ten years old. 1986 to 1996. It was such a small window to be alive. 

Back to the consulate, back to the dubious sanctuary of her office, and the neutrality of budget reports. Leave Fraser to try to teach Turnbull how to process passport applications. Finish the budget, save the dictating for tomorrow, when she could trust her voice not to crack, move on to the next report, and straight on through two memoranda. 

Reach for the coffee, but her cup was empty. She picked it up and went to get some more. But the pot was heavy and her left hand held it awkwardly. It twisted out of her grip, knocking her mug to the floor, hot coffee splashing everywhere. 

After a long moment of weary disbelief, she shut her eyes and slid down the wall to rest on the floor. So many stupid things, small things that should never have mattered. Shut your eyes, hide in a corner, and maybe the world will forget about you for a few merciful seconds. 

"Inspector Thatcher." The quiet voice startled her, and her eyes snapped open to find Fraser, regarding her with concern. 

What was he thinking? She never knew, no matter how hard she tried to understand him, wanted to understand him. She tried to get up again, and he reached out to help her. "I'm sorry, Constable. I'm a little tired." 

"Of course, ma'am," he agreed gently. He looked around, and she followed his gaze, seeing the coffee stains, the upset mug that hadn't shattered. Irrationally, that fact annoyed her. If Fraser hadn't been there, she would have broken it herself, hurling it at the wall, and maybe felt better for it, but he was. Always a constraint. 

"I'll bring you some more coffee in a moment, Inspector." 

"Thank you, Fraser." And so calmly back to her office, when all she wanted to do was smash something. 

It was after six before she got away, even though Fraser offered to write some of the reports. She had tried to send him home, had told him she would take a cab, but he insisted he had a responsibility to drive her. Her flaring temper had only left her feeling stupid and Fraser watching her with that mix of sympathy and concern. 

He pulled up in front of her apartment building, and she could see him working up to something, a concerned question, an Inuit story, one look of compassion that would be enough to shatter her composure. Desperate to leave before he could speak, she was out of the car, reminding him tersely, "Quarter to seven tomorrow morning." 

And finally, she was locked inside her flat, with no chance of anyone coming upon her unexpectedly, and before she even made it into the living room, she was crying so hard she thought her chest would burst. Small things, stupid things. And one dead child. 

_________________________________________________ 

Nicola Heiser 

Nicola Heiser died on 24th October 1997, and is greatly missed by her friends and fans of her writing. 


End file.
